


My Name is No One

by Payasita



Category: Hollow Knight (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, F/M, Hollow Knight Telephone Game, Love at First Sight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:27:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27922228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Payasita/pseuds/Payasita
Summary: One name bargained away, and one lost to time.But lost things can still be remembered. That alone can be enough to give them power.[For Chipper-smol's telephone game, written in the AU where the Pale King chooses to join the Grimm Troupe over death.]
Relationships: The Pale King/White Lady (Hollow Knight)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 41





	My Name is No One

**Author's Note:**

> this was a looot of fun, thank you to all the amazing people in the server and all their incredible art both already out and yet to be created! <3
> 
> [ the entire pale jester chain! ](https://chipper-smol.tumblr.com/post/636774799786573824/pale-jester-chain)

The path was all uninhibited vegetation and gnarling, thorny overgrowth, twisting in its conquest of all the still-shiny metal and delicate machinery below. Nature had long since won its battle with what was built by mortal hands, and rendered the walkways here mossy-soft. Foliage grew unchecked over yet more, ever creeping, clutching whatever was in the way in roots and brambles while plants outpaced other plants in their bid for space. The former garden now only had itself to be at war with, near silent in its ongoing, wild expansion.

But there was something _more_ here, hidden away in its depths. He could feel it.

Something that shone bright enough to cut through the comforting haze of percussive red that filled his dreams and pacified his thoughts. Something that pulled at him from deep deep down, like it too had taken root and clutched him tight enough that the stem could pull him about like a leash. Like a _weed,_ invasive, choked around one of the many, funny little pieces of him loosely strung together. 

A piece that the Heart would not take from him, no matter how he asked. Perhaps severing those tiny roots would simply cause what was inside to crumble, like old, packed soil. Thoroughly reclaimed by nature. 

How lovely, how lovely, the way these plants might burn. There was so much green here, and so many thick tangles of bark and dry nettle that would make perfect kindling. The Master and his kin could play to the crackling tempo of it, could dance and laugh and sing along to the ecstatic roar of that _cleansing_ inferno until there was nothing left but ash; until the land was left warm and desolate and _sated._

The thought made him want to vomit. It made him want to tear his eyes out, pry his scales, to reach a claw down his throat and _yank_ , spill his own heart, burn _that_ instead, how could he _do_ that, how could he _hurt_ her?

_Her?_

... _Who?_

Already the thought slipped away like fine sand. Already it dissolved just out of reach when he tried to chase it. He did not try very hard. It was easier, so easy, to let it recede from his mind. To listen to the throb of the Heart so much louder in his skull, comforting like a lullaby. He listened, felt it under his shell, until the pain ebbed. 

And _when_ the pain ebbed, he could not particularly remember what in the world had _caused_ it. He thought, maybe, he'd been thinking of someone. He supposed it didn't matter. But whatever it was, it had certainly made the pretty red haze so very bright in his mind. 

The Jester stood with an airy giggle-- _When had he fallen to his knees?--_ and advanced. Past the nettles, past the remnants of glass and machinery, and past the feeble critters that hopped and flitted about unsteadily. Many were still clumsy for their rocky recoveries from that peculiarly _angry_ disease that had all but ruled this land a short time ago, if they were lucky enough to survive it at all. He passed the old, brittle husks of those who hadn't, and of other long-fallen, one of which gave and cracked easily under his feet and nearly tripped him. 

Bother. He often envied things that could fly, whose wings were not just costume. Certainly they could get around much more easily. And wings themselves were so pretty on a bug, so enviable on their own. Had he been lucky enough to have any of his own, he would have liked them to shine, he thinks.

He was snapped from his daydreaming at the sight of a roughly globose structure, and at the huge, snaking branches that burst forth from it, all dug into the surrounding rock and soil. Not branches, then. Roots. 

So very many corpses lay scattered about in front. Something awful must have happened here. It was a shame he hadn't brought his lantern, and so could not collect the nightmares that must linger from the strife. Nothing wrong with a bit of errand-running while he was away from home, after all. But strangely, the thought of doing so, here, had felt… wrong. And so, on a whim, he'd left it.

He spared a jolly salute to the white warrior's corpse guarding the structure's entryway, and went inside. 

Down he went, into the dark. The fool on the card, finally falling off the cliffside, trusting that he won't be impaled by something in the drop. But the Pale Jester fancied himself a rather more _professional_ fool, and so knew very well the proper time and place for a prat fall. When it would be funny, first of all. And secondly, one should at the very least have an _idea_ of where they'll land before they attempt one. And as the Jester did _not_ know where he might land, or if he'd do so with safety, he elected to venture carefully. 

_Very_ carefully. The pulse racing under his shell, now, was only his own. And it just about sent his blood scrabbling to his extremities, his movements growing frenetic. He felt half mad. _Desperate_. 

_Why? Calm down, breathe_ . Whatever was at the end of this _nerve-wracking knotted knoll,_ it would never be more important than the burning embrace of what he served. Even if he was a fractured thing, even if he was in pieces, the shards of him ultimately still belonged to the Heart. To the Nightmare King. He belonged to the Master.

And then he saw light. White, cold, gentle light. It squeezed him inside, not unpleasant, and slowly he entered the chamber that housed its source.

And there she was. 

Bathed in the enchanting light of her own soul, bound in wrappings of cloth, and further imprisoned by a crushingly powerful magic seal all around her body. Eyes closed, silent and serene. For whose protection was his sleeping beauty sealed away? 

Oh, no, not _his._ Her magic pulled strong, but he'd never even _met_ her before. How horribly rude.

But by the Heart, she _was_ beautiful. Unbelievably so. A being like her couldn't be of this world, was clearly something so much more. A being like her could easily _be_ someone's entire world. He stepped forward, and as she opened her eyes, he had that same thought again, nearly breathless.

"One approaches," came her voice, like a knell. He shuddered. The sound set him _alight._

"One is approached," he took the opportunity.

She did not say anything else, for a few seconds. Only stared down. From the tracking of her eyes, and the foggy blue he saw there, he guessed she was at least mostly blind, and perhaps hadn't always been. He spoke again, if only for an outlet for the near manic energy roiling in him from shoulders to tail. 

"Do pardon the intrusion, madam. But I believe I was searching for something. I pray you take no offense."

"... No," she began, slowly. "For I know your kind, and the paltry morbidity of their goals. Your clan and kin exclusively go where they are unwanted, and do not heed the bids of any local sovereign nor law."

The Jester's head tilted, just so, as he considered her, feeling safely anonymous behind the mask while he mused.

"... Sovereigns and laws. Had this weeping land either of those before, it certainly does not, now."

"... It does not," she assented, equally unreadable.

He had the sense that this creature must have once been someone very important. It was the least he could do to respect that, even for how fate had clearly laid her low. The Master found most observances of status unnecessary, and even sometimes enjoyed poking fun at him for being _prim_. But the Jester found propriety comfortable, and so swept back into a scraping bow, demure and proper, and she watched him.

"May I know your name, my lady?"

Another pause. 

"... There is nothing left to know. Once, I had those who would fear me, and they called me as a Pale Being. Once I had devoted, and they called me as the White Lady. Once I had a husband, and he called me his Root." 

He listened, not noticing how his arm listed down from where it was extended to her. 

"But in this place, there is little use in a title, and none in a name."

"It is a pleasure, my lady, either way," he implored.

" _One_ defiled has already completed its business with me. Would that the second might now make his known."

Another "one defiled"? A previous visit from another troupe member, perhaps? Though, that didn't make much sense. Either way, how quick to dismiss him. He supposed he did have very little to offer, and she must have known that in an instant. A fool before a goddess, before a lady, before a prisoner. 

"...As I said, I believe I had been searching, perhaps," he hummed, "though I could not say for _what_ with any certainty. I would say for _answers,_ my lady, but that would require questions, on my end, would it not?" 

The Jester's fingers tapped together to a familiar beat, restless, while he blathered on.

"And I even had little in the way of _thos_ e, my lady, before I found you. A few come to mind now, though. If you would be so kind as to forgive a poor fool his curiosity, my lady."

So few things outside of the circus ever felt _right_ to him. But calling her "my lady" _did_ , and so he would continue to indulge. It sounded so suitably silly in a place like this, anyhow. 

She said nothing, only waited. Even if he preferred hearing her voice, at least he hadn't been told to just bugger off. 

Maybe she found him entertaining. He hoped she found him entertaining.

"What has made you a prisoner here? The old laws of the land? Perhaps a great beast to be slain, for the fair maiden's freedom?" He spread two arms, with the others' hands clasped under his chin in mock-thoughtfulness. 

"By my hand alone, I have ordained my own sealing," she tolled. His arms fell.

"... For what do you wish to atone?"

She took another moment to think, or maybe to word it right. Or maybe however many years of silence and introspection she'd been here had simply slowed her reactions to outside requisitions for her attention.

"... No atonement shall be found, for my part in facilitating the ancient sins of this kingdom. Nor do I seek it. My fate is penitence and precaution, only."

"But what was your _crime_?" It was barely above a whisper.

"The scope of some actions can be vast enough to transcend laws, wretched one. Ruin such as this goes beyond crime. I am no convict, for the word would be too trivial. There is no name for what we wrought, though the closest I can offer you in definition would be 'sacrilege'." 

She spoke so softly, almost kindly. But too far away for that. Too lonely.

And she'd said 'we.'

"...You had a husband, you said," he realized. "What of him?"

"... He was to be locked away in a similar fashion, though less permanently." She shifted a little under her bindings, a faint rustling of bark, and spoke slowly.

"Though a recent transaction has led me to understand that my beloved ultimately chose _escape_ from the regrets that plagued him. Opposite me, he chose to ensure that he no longer had to suffer his own mind."

Oh, dear. How unfortunate. What nightmares that couple might have offered. 

And what a stupid, _selfish_ creature the other half of it must have been, to abandon his wife to now bear them all alone. And to force her to suffer even _more_ by choosing to die at his own hand. That was not the sort of nightmare that ever truly left a person. And to inflict it upon a _goddess_ , who even diminished felt like home and hearth and sweetest sanctuary?

 _Good riddance, then,_ the Jester privately thought. Callous thoughts spared for some callous corpse. 

"... I am sorry for your loss, my lady," he offered out loud.

"Your offer of pity is an unwelcome one," she intoned. Her voice was gentle, quiet, and cold like fine jewelry. "And I bid you cease pretending your propriety. I am no one's lady, now."

The Jester brightened.

"How very fortunate, then. For _I_ happen to be just that: a no-one!" He waved his arms out in a flourish, fabric wings bouncing with the motion. "A jester is meant to be a mirror to reality, you see-- a funhouse reflection of polite society, and all the _frightfully frivolous foolishness_ found therein." 

He held up a finger, triumphant, and took a step forward. 

"Ergo, I believe I _definitively_ possess little enough identity of my own, that by your own words, I _can_ call you 'my lady'."

Her silence was a bit different this time around. It wasn't contemplative, nor dismissive, nor even angry.

Only sad. 

Silence and sadness. He stood watching it on her for only a second, and was struck by the urge to _scream_ . He didn't. But how long must she have been living in _only_ silence and sadness? It oughtn't matter to him, but she had such a lovely voice, and he bet her smile might be a thing that could light up the whole damned kingdom, should it ever grace the world again.

He couldn't _imagine_ her laugh. Seeing her now, bound and bemoaned and bereaved, it was difficult to imagine that she even _could._

But the Jester looked at her, and he bet it was a sound like bubbles and bells. He bet it was like coming home, like coming warm together under the covers and _healing_. He bet it could doom any poor fool hopelessly into her possession, heart and soul, with no effort on her part. 

He needed to hear it. He needed to make her laugh. He was a clown, that's what he's _for_. He needed to hear her laugh.

"I've a riddle for you, my lady," he blurted, all in one breath. "Forgive the banality, my lady, but I promise I am rather good at those. I can sometimes be something of a riddle myself, you see."

He placed a hand over his heart. The Master would chide him for improvising like this-- the Jester was, admittedly, not terribly good at it. But practice makes perfect, does it not? 

And either way, the Jester found his mouth was running just a bit faster than his brain, at the moment. Nothing for it but to go along for the ride, then.

"How many pieces does it take to put together a fool?" He peered up, trying to glean anything from her face. She seemed vaguely surprised that he'd spoken up so abruptly, at least. He held out a finger.

"Here are your hints. A big piece of him belongs to what he serves, and remains safely tucked away in its possession. One is held by a grave-eyed, broken toy soldier, who comes 'round to see him sometimes. One was taken by a quiet little shadow, who won it with force. One is found near the nimble warrior in rose-red garb, who eyes it rather _rudely_ with distaste. And one is held by the land's fairest mourning damsel, who pulled him to her, by it, on strings of plant fiber."

The Jester had long since learned that he had a mysterious talent for oration, and it always served him well. No one would guess from his declarative diction that he'd no idea where he was going with this. And yet on he spoke.

"Those are not all of them, my lady, he's quite sure there is more to him than just those few shards. But perhaps, my lady, the answer to their number can be found in _why_ those pieces in particular seem so very important. 

Why is it, my lady, that the toy soldier fusses with him so? Why, my lady, did what the little shadow took hurt so horribly to give away, even if the trinket had always pained him to look at? Why does the rose-red warrior avoid him, my lady, and why should that _disquiet_ him? Why, my lady, does the Master seem to have so much trouble deciding whether to _laugh_ at the fool, or _comfort_ him as if he were grieving?"

His hand trembled where he held it aloft, and the one at his heart now clutched the ruff of his costume like a lifeline, tight enough to poke holes. The other two, at some point, had wrapped around each other in a bruising grip. And the Jester smiled through it all, delivering his terrible joke of a riddle with a taut, warbling brightness in his voice.

"Why is it, my lady, that I know for a _fact_ \-- my lady-- that _you,_ my lady, are the most beautiful creature that I will ever lay eyes on, even if I were to live for a hundred thousand years more? Why, my lady, why do I _want--_ "

His voice finally broke on the last word. He hiccuped, and wrapped all his arms tight around himself in earnest, now, holding himself together. He bowed his head, not seeing how or if she had any reaction to him. 

He took a few sharp breaths, until his words could again come out beyond a choke. The result was little more than a slow, pathetic rasp.

"...I can almost feel it. I do not know … I do not _know_ it, but... I can…" a shuddering sigh, while his tongue searched for something just out of reach. 

"You… My… my rhh… my..."

"I have given you the word. You do know it. Or else the chains around your mind are so strong that you will remain shielded from any core memories, no matter the reminders."

The Jester slowly looked up, and found that he still couldn't see her expression. He tried to blink away the tears to see a bit better, but made little progress beyond just making his eyes sting.

"... You said it…?"

"I did."

"... Tell me again. _Please_."

"... I do not know that it would be of any help, my Wyrm. You have accepted the Nightmare's call so thoroughly into yourself. You have given it your soul. What once beat for your people, your own dreams, and for me, cannot be heard under the beating of its loathsome Heart."

" _Please_ ," he repeated. He wanted to beg for so much more, but he had no idea what any of it was.

"... I was your Root, when you were my Wyrm. But the being I sense before me now, I do not know. I do not recognize any of the familiar light that once shone so beautifully within you."

"My Root," he breathed, mind buzzing, shoulders aching. "My Root. My… my _Root_. My… rh... my…" 

"One defiled, who are you _now?"_

"...My... My what…? My…? What was I…?"

"...So indeed, then, he did take his own life."

"I… I had it, did I not…? I had… _something_... Hadn't I…? What was… My…?"

"Servant of the Nightmare. Tell me your name, that I may preserve it as the site of his grave."

Confused, dazed in scarlet fog, and barely processing anything beyond the thundering heartbeat beneath his mask, he had to think very very hard in order to obey her.

"...My kin call me as the Pale Jester. I… I serve for the Heart... And I play for the Master," he mumbled out, at length, feeling just a bit of strength returning.

"... Then go. Return to your play, and to what calls you to its domain. There is no sense in allowing yet another sacrifice to go in vain."

Slowly, legs numb, he stood up from where he'd again collapsed to his knees. The haze beckoned him out, beckoned him home. 

A voice that was like stained silk sheets, that was like a warm body pressed to his on a freezing night, that was like a lingering hand on his cheek, followed him in a vague echo.

"... My current state bars me from visiting any tomb of my own volition. So I thank you, wretched one, for allowing me this final opportunity to say goodbye to him. It is more than I ever would have hoped to have."

The Pale Jester shuffled out, lured by the gentle thrum underscoring the crooning of an accordion, that together scrubbed his mind mercifully blank for a time.

The first sober thought he had was about halfway to the surface. He remembered meeting someone unbelievably beautiful, and he remembered bits and pieces of their talk. 

And he remembered trying to make her laugh, but instead, having made her cry. That pretty voice, and how it went thin and quavered, as she tried to keep it level. Low and all alone, with no comfort ever again to be offered. Lost to him.

His own heart shattered into a thousand pieces.

The one he served gentled it back together, threaded it with its own patchwork arteries and cauterizing flame, now finally taking care of it where he no longer could.

And the Jester felt _fantastic_.

**Author's Note:**

> [cocks gun] i write happy endings, but


End file.
